


Discretion Advised

by DunscaitheBloom



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Original Character(s), Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26611180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DunscaitheBloom/pseuds/DunscaitheBloom
Summary: An old and jaded bounty huntress stakes out an Alacran smuggling stop. Alongside her apprentice, she observes his progress in his training, his growth as a person, and his bright future in contrast to her troubled life





	Discretion Advised

**Author's Note:**

> Short work, not going to go through and edit this too much since I don't have the time. But I wrote it, so I want it posted somewhere. Thanks for reading.

A cluster of small buildings cling together amidst a looming, pelting rainstorm. It’s darkened, roiling clouds deepen the shadows of the night, and the hills loom tall and ominous around the valley in which the town rests. Some few lights battle against the rain and the dark, stark from their windows and porches, but most lay long dark. Ever since the calamity, only the stubborn live this far out from a major city. The lands here are poisoned, crops fail and die. The ceruleum from the Bluefog canyon a few dozen malms away reaches even here with it’s cloying, cruel hand. But near-dead places like these have their use.

At the edge of town, there is an old barn. It’s walls are well-kept, and it’s roof is finely thatched. It’s windows are painted black, and a sign is posted on its wide front doors. In thick, red letters, it reads:

“ **PRIVATE PROPERTY - TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT** ”

At any hour of the day, any day of the week, there is at least one man sitting out under the shade of the Barn’s awning, a crossbow within arm’s reach. He’ll make friendly conversation, answer - or more accurately dodge - questions, and even show up when invited to a party or local meeting. Every few months, the face changes. A new guard out front. When asked, they’ll say it’s part of a mercenary contract with a small-time shipping company out of Ul’Dah. They’re always friendly, and always insistent that the curious remember their caution.

The houses and shops that used to stand adjacent to the barn were cleared away a few years ago, and the property bought by the same folks who own the big, well-kept building. And the shops right across have glass fronts, right in the line of sight of the friendly guard outside.

But at the center of town there’s a temple to Nald’Thal. As with many rural chapels, it has a bell tower which looks over the whole township. But it’s old, and with most residents having moved off for greener pastures, the bell was removed and sold. The chapel’s door is only open two days out of the week for worship, and the lone priest who works there spends more time tending the graveyards and remembering the lost than preaching. But he is desperate for coin, and when offered a couple hundred thousand gil to allow two strangers to use the chapel for a week, he didn’t see the harm in it. He’d take a short holiday. Go see family in Drybone, and then use the money to help rebuild the temple.

Meanwhile, the doors would be closed, and they’d have the run of the place. It wasn’t like there was anything for them to steal - it had all already been sold to keep wood in his hearth and food on his table.

And so, seated atop an old stool, a Lalafellin woman watches that big, well-kept barn from the bell tower. A white, leather half-coat covers her shoulders, it’s turtle-style, high collar guarding a thin throat. A brimmed, white cap sits tight on her head. Neither does anything for the rain or cold, but she sits still as a statue. The stock of a longrifle is pressed into her shoulder, it’s barrel covered in old, ratty cloth to hide it’s glint. Its scope is similarly bound, save for its lenses. A bipod braces it against the windowsill of the tower. Her eyes both remain open, ever unblinking, and dull emerald with all the light and life of a corpse. Even her hands, clad in gauntlets and bound in the same obscuring cloth, are still and unmoving.

In the small space atop the tower there’s two chairs and a small table suitable for a hand of cards between friends, or a quiet, isolated meal with a pleasant view. An old, leather tome sits closed on the table, along with several pens and a closed inkwell. There’s also several boxes of ammunition of different make and caliber, two handguns of wildly varied size and scope, a dozen throwing knives, a thick-bladed bodkin, and a greatlance with in-built ceruleum vents.

“Still in there?” Tahve’ir’s reedy voice is the only thing Vavara hears as he approaches from behind. He’s gotten quieter and quieter over time, even she’d have difficulty hearing him now. He sets a steaming cup down onto the table besides her, and gazes out the boarded up window.

“The mark hasn’t moved. Probably waiting on another delivery. No sign of a change of guard, yet.” Vavara says, words clipped and short. Her body doesn’t move as she speaks, maintaining perfect stillness with the weapon against her shoulder.

“Here, I’ll take the scope. Warm up.” Tahve’ir rests one hand on her shoulder, “Besides, it’s long past time you were supposed to take your meds.” His ember eyes flicker from her to the cup.

“... Fine.” She throws a scrap of cloth over the scope, and then shifts out of the stool. She snags the cup as she drops to the floor, draining half of it in one draught. Tahve’ir drags a smaller, shorter chair over, and then sits down. He presses his cheek against the cold wood and metal of the stock. He checks the scope, quickly adjusting it to his eyes with practiced ease. Once ready, he throws the scrap off the front of the scope and sits still.

She watches him the whole time, taking careful measure of his hands and posture. She makes a sound that could almost be considered a satisfied harumph, if not for the rough metallic edge to it. She drops onto the floor, cradling her cup in both hands as her back rests against one old, moisture-eaten wall.

Ever since they’d begun to train in basic stealth and discretion, Tahve’ir had taken to wearing a close-fitted tunic with an attached hood. It was a deep, lively green. Suited to blending in where the forests grow thick. It didn’t blend as nicely here in the sand and heat of Thanalan. But it suited him. She could see his long, maroon hair sticking to the weapon. She’d have to show him out to keep it out of his face reliably, at least if he intended to keep letting it grow. One of her hands goes absentmindedly to her shoulder, one thumb tracing the long braid draped there.

The rain beating on the outside of the old, wooden tower is a melodic hum. Without the thunder which so often accompanied heavy rains, it was almost soothing.

“How long do these stake-outs usually last?” He asks. He hides the nervousness in his voice well, a practiced calm steadying his tone.

“Depends. With a low traffic place like this…” She lapses into a moment of quiet thought.

“We may be here a few weeks like this. Should be fine. A stake-out like this is a good chance for some peace and quiet.” She says.

“Ah, Twelve save me…” He lets out a long sigh.

“I promised Tataru I’d come visit again before the month was out. That’ll earn me an earful. Can’t we break radio-silence just once to let her know I won’t make it?”

“No.”

“Just no? No long-winded technical explanation why?”

“You know why.”

“What are the chances of this back-water Alacran outpost having expensive Garlean tech? Most Garlean gunships and dropships don’t even have signal-interceptors capable of picking up encrypted Linkshell chatter. And there’s absolutely no way they’ve got someone on hand to break the encryption, so they’d never hear us anyways. So why not?”

“Because they don’t have to hear us. This place doesn’t have an aetheryte. There’s not a single radio-wave or aether-signal for miles around. All of a sudden there’s an encrypted signal a few blocks away? That raises red flags, regardless of whether they could hear you.”

Tahve’ir lets out a groaning, closed-mouth sigh. A grumpy frown rests on his mouth.

“Just send a letter, if it’s that important.”

“Oh, er. Right. There’s a postmoogle here, isn’t there? Wait-” He glances over at her, a surprised expression on his face and mouth pursed.

“Wait, wait, shouldn’t you be worried about me going out of the safehouse and into public? Getting seen and all? Ruining the mission? Wasting all that money you spent on ammo and the safehouse? Sending up a big red flair that says, ‘HERE WE ARE, WE ARE HERE TO CAPTURE AND ARREST YOU!’?” He asks, each question coming faster and with more dramatic sarcasm.

“You’re more than capable of getting a letter into his pack without breaking cover.” She says matter-of-factly. He sits in the quiet for a moment, eyes going back to the scope and she watches him weigh the pros and cons of risking the venture outside. He doesn’t make any effort to hide the way his head shifts back and forth, or stop his tail from sweeping up and down in response to his own train of thought.

“The moogle arrives in thirty-two hours, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, just before lunch.” She says, taking a long drink from the medicinal tea he’d brought her. He perks up, confusion written across his body language for a brief few moments. Then, he relaxes and listens closely - all the while keeping his eyes on the barn door through the scope.

“He’s treated to lunch and dinner at the tavern at the edge of town, opposite of the mark’s hole. He stays the night there, goes and collects any remaining letters first thing in the morning, and then orders breakfast for the road before leaving. As is tradition with moogles, money never changes hands for any of these goods or services.” As she finishes, she takes another draught. The bitter drink goes down poorly, but she can already feel the way the omnipresent burning in her veins subsides, the way her heart’s pace eases and the cold of the crystalline core against it warms. A broad relief, to be certain.

“How busy is the tavern on those days?” Tahve’ir’s voice is half business, half child-like, playful excitement. Like he’d just been dared to do something reckless and challenging on a schoolyard.

“Very. Almost everyone goes on those days, both to hand off their mail without making the postmoogle track them down, as well as to meet with their neighbors, friends, and colleagues.” She sinks into her seat a bit, the tension in her body finally giving way the slightest bit.

“How rowdy does the clientele get?”

“Not very. It’s quiet here, anyone who gets particularly drunk and loud gets taken home by someone they know.”

“How many floors?”

“Just the one. The inn rooms are back behind the kitchen and bar room, not above as it would be in a bigger building. Some rooms don’t have windows. And before you ask, most of the windows have grating installed, to prevent particularly clever beastkin from getting in even if a window is broken. Any further questions?” She finishes her cup.

“No, none.” He leans back into the rifle, stifling his excited jitters. He goes still, save for the slightest rise and fall of his breathing, and the excited swishing of his tail. She lets her eyes close, the melodic rhythm of the rainfall and Tahve’ir’s near-silent breathing lulling her into a meditative peace.

Her mind falls to the young man who had come to her a few months ago. Her early training with him. His boundless energy, enthusiasm, and naivete. He was not a different person now, but he tempered those things with the caution and discretion she had taught him. He walked with a quiet, unstated confidence rare in someone his age. And he observed his surroundings with a perceptive eye which misses vanishingly little as he grows. He’d mastered none of what she’d shown him, not yet.

But that was never the goal. If needed, he could blend into a crowd and vanish with the drop of a hat. If called upon, he could stand between the cruel and the innocent. If sought, he could be the one to choose whether or not he was to be found. If one attempted to wield him as a weapon of light, as they had her and her colleagues, he now had the perspective and insight to see their ruse for what it was. And yet, he had not been jaded. Not yet, at least.

For years, the Scions have tried to make amends with Vavara. But the bloody banquet and the Crystal Brave’s betrayal do not so easily vanish. She’ll not ignore them in a moment of need, as when the Archons and their champion were summoned to distant lands. But neither would she remain any longer than needed. But he would still foster that relationship. He would still give them his trust. In bitter thoughts and moments of weakness, she doubts they are worthy of it.

But then, that was why she agreed to tutor him. To have him here beside her. She could hand him all the tools she has, teach him all she knows. And then, with that might, he can choose to be better than her. To be better than she was. Better than she can be right now.

She is not a hero. She knows this. She never will be one, her hands are too stained. And once, she would have scoffed at the idea that any hero truly existed. Sure, there are champions, wielded as weapons and tools by their causes. They may be just, they may be pure, but they are still weapons which can be, and have been, misdirected. Weapons cannot choose what they battle. But he still has that choice. And so, there’s the smallest part of her which wants to hope. To believe that those stories of heroism and chivalry may not have been lies in full.


End file.
